I mean –a love story is just a love story. But add some robots, and you got me. You got me.
Again, change –the art, me, you.
A peril of going through the internet; you change. It rattles around the head.
This is what I do on Sundays, or thereabouts.
The struggle to search for meaning. It’s 2020. There’s art.
I think it’s incomplete.
These letters, like this promise, is not for you.
This time last year I was bawling my eyes out in a public restroom.
I was born with an extremely rare and incurable disease…
\ ˈsmī(-ə)l \